


Quest 02: Ritual of the Mahjarrat

by FictionCookie



Series: Of Gods and Men [2]
Category: Runescape (Video Games)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-02-27 16:19:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18742633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictionCookie/pseuds/FictionCookie
Summary: With the Mahjarrat Ritual upon them, Jahaan, Sir Tiffy and the others venture into the frozen North in an attempt to curtail Lucien’s latest power grab and reclaim the Staff of Armadyl. But a bloodchilling battle of the Mahjarrat might be the least of their worries...





	1. Calm Before The Storm

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of my full series 'Of Gods and Men', and on my page can be read in full (or as far as I've posted). I'm also posting it in smaller chunks as each 'quest' can sort of be standalone, but read as part of a wider story as well.

****

Nobody batted an eyelid when Sir Tiffy brought a pirate and an armed stranger through the gates of Falador Castle. I suppose when you have as much respect as Sir Tiffy had garnered over the years, nobody dares to question you anymore. Jahaan tried not to look too much like a tourist as he marvelled at the battlements, or the knights and squires still training under the moonlight. He reminded himself to act professional - he was still technically on a job interview, after all.

Quitely, Sir Tiffy led Jahaan into a small study, saying to make himself at home while he fetched a few comrades. Also, he thought it’d be a good idea to put Sir Tendeth to bed - the man had experienced quite enough stress for one day, so a good night’s sleep was definitely deserved.

Jahaan didn’t get much solitude before the door to the tiny study opened and people began to emerge through.

First through the door was Idria, a beige-robe donned Guardian of Armadyl. Her blonde hair was hidden under a draping hood; the crest of Armadyl was emblazoned on her torso. The Guardians of Armadyl were a human-led military order that tasked themselves with protecting the Staff of Armadyl, an Elder Artifact their diety - Armadyl, funnily enough - once carried. Jahaan and Idria had met briefly before; the former tried a weak, welcoming smile, but her scowl shot it to pieces.

Next was Akrisae, a priest of Saradomin and a part of the Temple Knight order, wearing gilded navy and white robes, the star of Saradomin on his chest.

Lastly was Thaerisk Cemphier, the current leader of an underground organisation of druids called the Crux Eqal. His beige robes were laced with green, the colour of the deity of all the druids - Guthix.

_ Quite a ragtag band of religions we have here, _ Jahaan inwardly commented. Clearing his throat, he introduced himself to the arrivals as they passed him, gathering around a small rectangular table.

“Thank you all for gathering here at such an hour,” Sir Tiffy sat down at the head of the table, placing a quaint china teacup in front of him. He stirred the tea thoughtfully with a little teaspoon. “I shall get right down to it. The Temple Knights have been running an investigation on some disturbances around Gielinor. Such disturbances include, but are not limited to, an attack from dragonkin.”

Akrisae sunk into the chair below him. “Saradomin help us… dragonkin?!”

“Are you sure, Tiffy?” Idria placed her hands on her hips, huffing. “This isn’t like the time when you thought penguins had a secret spy network and were roaming around disguised as rocks, is it?”

Tiffy’s eyes narrowed. “That was real, and so is this. Jahaan saw it with his very eyes, didn’t you lad?”

Nodding solemnly, Jahaan confirmed, “They attacked Port Sarim, and I followed them into the forest. They plan to attack again, saying something about the Stone of Jas, and a ‘False User’.”

Thaerisk closed his eyes, taking a deep, contemplative breath. “Alright. Assuming this is all true, let’s look at this logically. We know that the dragonkin's power is related to use of the Stone of Jas - as the Stone is used, their power increases, and they can become powerful enough to wipe out an entire world. These recent attacks imply that the Stone is currently being used, and frequently.”

“Do we have any leads on who has the Stone of Jas?” Jahaan inquired. Instead of replying, the assembled group traded uncomfortable glances with one another, an awkward silence settling.

Eventually, Tiffy was the one brave enough to speak up and announce, “Lucien has it.”

“WHAT?!” Jahaan roared, choking on the lump in his throat.

“Lucien has the Stone of Jas, old chap,” Tiffy sullenly repeated. “We’ve been monitoring him for a while now, ever since… well, hmph. He now has the Stone AND the Staff of Armadyl.”

“H-How could you let this happen?” Jahaan sputtered, feeling sick. “TWO Elder Artifacts in the hands of one power-hungry Mahjarrat!”

Idria pushed Jahaan’s arm forcefully around to face her. “Hey, you of all people have no right to take that attitude, alright?”

The two of them locked eyes, gazes that could melt mithril, until Jahaan finally relented. “You’re right. Forgive me.”

Turning back to Tiffy, he asked, “Is that why Sir Tendeth was on Mos Le’Harmless?”

Nodding, Tiffy replied, “Correct, my lad. That’s where Lucien was last reported. Seems like he’s moved on now - the trail’s gone cold, what?”

“Then perhaps I can be of some assistance…”

Everyone shot towards the sound of the disturbance, originating at the doorway. There, an overly tall gentlemen of svelte build, dressed in the type of desert clothing that was common among the merchant class and many archeologists. His baggy pants tucked into rugged boots, and a lightweight overcoat draped over his shoulders. Grey hairs started to sprout through his brown roughly-kept bowl cut, a moustache and beard to match.

Instantly, Akrisae stood protectively in front of Idria, who instantly dodged back in front of him with an annoyed glare. The former exclaimed, “Who are you? How did you get in here? Guards!”

Jahaan swiftly jumped between the perturbed party and the newcomer. “Akrisae wait! Everyone, this is Ali the Wise. He's a friend of mine who happens to know a lot about the Mahjarrat. I'm surprised to see you here, though. You're a long way from Nardah. And… how did you get in here?”

“An acquaintance of mine was nearby when the dragonkin struck,” Ali the Wise explained, “He was the one who told me of the attack. How or why I’m here isn’t important as we have more pressing concerns. Particularly, if Lucien truly has the Stone of Jas, he  _ needs  _ to be stopped.”

“Tell us something we don’t know,” Thaerisk said, dryly. He was still uncomfortable in Ali’s presence.

“I intend to,” Ali replied, his tone hinting that he was oblivious to Thaerisk’s undertones. “I know where Lucien will be, very soon from now. Jahaan, remember what I told you of the rituals the Mahjarrat have to perform?”

“There’s two,” Jahaan recalled. “The Ritual of Rejuvenation, and the Ritual of Enervation.”

Ali continued, “Correct. I have been studying the stars, and by my calculations, the next Ritual of Rejuvenation is imminent, where the Mahjarrat sacrifice one of their own to rejuvenate themselves. As a Mahjarrat himself, Lucien is compelled to attend.”

Akrisae rubbed the bridge of his nose, mumbling, “Lucien… the dragonkin… and now some Mahjarrat ritual? What more could go wrong?”

“I think you're looking at this the wrong way… Akrisae, isn't it?” Ali responded, “We could use the Mahjarrat ritual to our advantage. I am sure there will be Mahjarrat there who will also want to defeat Lucien. Who better to defeat Lucien than his own kind? If you combine your forces with theirs, it might be enough to beat him, even if he is using the Stone of Jas.”

Idria laughed a short, derisive laugh. “Are you mad? If you think any of us will work with one evil Mahjarrat to get rid of another, you can think again!”

“I've encountered Mahjarrat before. They're not all evil like Lucien is,” Jahaan vouched, humbly.

“And how many Mahjarrat have you met, other than the murderous Lucien?” Akrisae countered.

Rubbing the back of his head awkwardly, Jahaan mumbled, “One…”

Hands on his hips, Akrisae stated, “I rest my case.”

Having been rather quiet up until now, Thaerisk took the opportunity to pipe up, “Personally, I think it might add a bit of balance to our alliance. There's a little too much piety around here for my liking.”

“Everything I've heard of the Mahjarrat claims that they are of the darkest evil! I will not be tainted by association!” Akrisae stubbornly maintained, as if he didn’t even register Thaerisk’s remarks.

Ali seemed a little bit put out by this. “They’re not all as you speak,” he defended, calmly. “I’ve met honourable Mahjarrat in my travels. I’m confident we could find allies among them.”

“Please,” Idria rolled her eyes, scowling, “They’re all one in the same. War-mongering, power-hungry, dangerous beings that stole the Staff of Armadyl. We’d be fools to try and work with them.”

With an exasperated sigh, Jahaan mentioned, “It seems we are at an impasse. What do you think, Sir Tiffy?”

All eyes fell on the old knight, sipping from his little tea cup. After a pronounced yet delicate sip, Tiffy rested the tea cup down and trained his eyes across the room. Everyone waited on baited breath; this dramatic pause of his wasn’t accomplishing much of anything, but no-one dared bring it up.

Eventually, Tiffy asserted, “I trust all of your sound judgements, hence I gathered you all here at this crucial moment, what? He may be a young whippersnapper, but I trust Jahaan - he’s of good character, I can sense it, hmph - and if Ali here is a friend of his too, we should consider this plan. We need all the allies we can muster if we’re taking the fight to ol’ Lucien. After all, us humans tried to stand up to Lucien alone once before, and it… well, hmph.”

The heavy silence that followed said everything that it needed to.

While Idria and Akrisae bit their tongues, Thaerisk, Jahaan and Ali let relief bubble into their features, the latter saying, “I’m glad to have support from you all on this. As for where the Ritual will take place, ancient texts speak of a passage to the site from a place called Ghorrock Fortress. I can teleport myself there, and you can latch onto my coordinates to join me. Firstly, Jahaan, I think you should seek out our mutual Mahjarrat friend Azzanadra. He's the one most likely to be our ally in all of this.”

“Good call,” Jahaan agreed. “Where do you reckon he’ll be?”

“The Temple at Senntisten is where I would start. Would you like me to teleport you nearby?”

Considering he didn’t fancy traversing all the way to Varrock on foot, despite it only being one large city to the east, Jahaan took him up on his offer, saying just before he teleported away, “I won’t be long. We’ll head up to the Ritual Site en masse.”

 

Once he materialised outside the digsite and collected himself from the headrush of teleporting, Jahaan made from the trapdoor-turned-entrance to the temple. The temple itself was still under construction, though an impressive amount of work has been done in a very short amount of time. Azzanadra must have had great carpenters on his side.

The temple was once part of the capital of the ancient Zarosian Empire, Senntisten. Ever since his release from captivity inside the Jaldraocht Pyramid, Azzanadra had worked tirelessly to restore the temple to its former glory, a shine to his banished deity - Zaros. If the large tiled symbol on the floor and the purple decor wasn’t a giveaway, a Zarosian altar stood in pride of place at the western edge of the room. There, Jahaan saw a crimson robed figure with a headdress (that resembled bunny ears, but gods help you if you pointed that out) kneeling in front of it.

Despite being capable of altering their appearance, shapeshifting effortlessly, the Mahjarrat possess a natural form. It is somewhat similar to that of humans, but larger, and about one and a half times as tall. Their skin is tougher, containing markings and stripes, and a gemstone is embedded into their foreheads.

Creeping in quietly, Jahaan tiptoed into the centre of the room and waited patiently, albeit somewhat awkwardly, for Azzanadra to finally raise his head. “Welcome, Jahaan.”

Scrunching up his brow, Jahaan asked, “How did you know it was me? Some extra mystical Mahjarrat power, is it?”

Chuckling, Azzanadra replied, “No. I saw you in my peripheral vision. You aren't the stealthiest of fellows.”

Making his way to his feet, Azzanadra strode up to Jahaan with a warm smile on his skeletal face, crinkling the stripes that protruded from around his nose. “It’s good to see you again, Jahaan. Ever since you freed me from that prison inside the pyramid, I hoped our paths would cross again. Tell me, how is Ozan?”

Looking upwards to the tall ceiling, Jahaan thought for a moment before carefully answering, “He’s as energetic as ever.”

“Ha! The young man has a lot of potential, if he can keep his head attached to his shoulders long enough to reach it.”

“That remains to be seen,” Jahaan winked, chuckling to himself. Despite having only met the man once, Jahaan had warmed to Azzanadra. There was an aura surrounding him, an honourable atmosphere that offered trust and loyalty, asking only for the same respect and kindness in return. The Mahjarrat was fiercely religious, almost to a terrifying degree, but having never met a Zarosian before, Jahaan welcomed the opportunity to discuss the philosophy. 

When Jahaan’s smile faltered somewhat, Azzanadra picked up on it in an blink of an eye, saying, “But you have not come here to reminisce, have you, Jahaan?”

Shaking his head subtly, Jahaan turned his tone more serious as he replied, “Not this time. I take it you’ll be heading to the upcoming Mahjarrat Ritual?”

“Indeed I am. How did you come to know the Ritual is upon us?”

“Our mutual friend, Ali, came to me,” Jahaan explained, “There’s been a worrisome development. Lucien, another Mahjarrat - you know of him?”

“I’m unfortunate to say that, yes, I’ve had the  _ pleasure  _ of his acquaintance,” Azzanadra groaned, his tone darkening as he feared the worst. “What’s the fool gone and done now?”

“Oh, not much,” Jahaan drawled, his shoulders sagging. “Just stolen a couple of Elder artifacts and, in doing so, pissed off a species of intelligent dragon that have the power to wipe out Gielinor. They seem to be taking their rage out on cities; Port Sarim is a lot more charred than when you last would have visited.”

Azzanadra’s eyes grew wide, and he had to steady himself slightly. “Dear Zaros… I knew Lucien had the Staff of Armadyl, but ANOTHER Elder artifact? Which one, pray tell?”

“The Stone of Jas.”

The Mahjarrat really looked like he needed to sit down - Jahaan all but refrained from reaching out to balance him. Rubbing his forehead, Azzanadra grumbled, “This complicates things greatly. He will prove a severely prominent player in the upcoming Ritual. That Zamorakian lunatic cannot be trusted with such immense power. Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Jahaan.”

“Actually, there’s something else,” Jahaan continued, “I’ve got a few… friends may be pushing it, but allies, all who want to see Lucien dead, and the sooner the better. Ali proposed we form an alliance with you and some other Mahjarrat so we can all jump Lucien when he emerges for the Ritual. We were hoping you could use your influence to help gather allies among the Mahjarrat.”

Azzanadra smiled, weakly. “And Ali once more proves his wisdom. Yes, an alliance would be of mutual benefit. I’ll try and convince those that I can, but even among the remaining Zarosian Mahjarrat, there is no love lost between us.”

Holding out his comparably smaller hand for the Mahjarrat to shake, Jahaan said, “Thanks, Azzanadra. I knew I could count on you.”

“And I you, Jahaan,” Azzanadra replied, shaking the outstretched hand a bit too firmly for Jahaan’s liking, but he didn’t let it show.

“Oh, can you do me a favour before I go?” Jahaan wondered with an embarrassed wince.

“Anything, my friend,” Azzanadra asserted, assuringly.

“Would you mind teleporting me back to Falador? I don’t have the runes on me…” he left out the part about how, even if he did have the runes, last time he tried a simple teleportation spell, he ended up in a well.

As if he could read the truth behind his eyes, Azzanadra smiled warmly. “It’s the least I can do. I’ll see you at the Ritual, Jahaan.”

With that, Jahaan was whisked away into the realms of nothingness, materialising a few feet from the statue in Falador’s main market.

It was the middle of the night now. When Jahaan made it back to the White Knights’ Castle, Sir Tiffy offered Jahaan and Ali residence in one of the spare quarters, to which they graciously accepted. Ali explained the Ritual would occur within the day or two, and he would know when they should arrive there. He didn’t exactly explain how he knew, but when Jahaan last saw his little hut in the small desert town of Nardah, it might as well be made entirely out of history books. The man knew his stuff.

Within the next two days, the Ritual would commence.


	2. Return of Lucien

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the Mahjarrat Ritual upon them, Jahaan, Sir Tiffy and the others venture into the frozen North in an attempt to curtail Lucien’s latest power grab and reclaim the Staff of Armadyl. But a bloodchilling battle of the Mahjarrat might be the least of their worries...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part of my full series 'Of Gods and Men', and on my page can be read in full (or as far as I've posted). I'm also posting it in smaller chunks as each 'quest' can sort of be standalone, but read as part of a wider story as well.

Enakhra was annoyed. She’d been waiting beside the Ritual Marker now for hours, shivering in the fiercely cold terrain. Mahjarrat were not made for the winter; her tribe's home world of Freneskae didn’t exactly have anything other than ‘bloody hot’ on the temperature scale. Hence, she much preferred her home in the desert. The only saving grace was that, while waiting, she’d spent the most part of it undisturbed. Akthanakos turned up about an hour ago, not even giving her a small wave in greeting before standing on the opposite end of the plateau. Neither Mahjarrat enjoyed small talk. That, and it was no small secret that the two despised each other. Akthanakos had spent much of his time on Gielinor with the camels in the desert, teaching them to fight and conversing with them through the aptly named ‘camlet’, the amulet of camel-speak. This association went so far that he began being depicted as the ‘camel-headed god’, even by the humans of the desert. Enakhra, on the other hand, had spent thousands of years dwelling inside the temple she had built to honour Zamorak. Her god visited the temple once, and did not receive the gesture as well as Enakhra had hoped. She still found the time to capture and imprison her bitter rival, Akthanakos, inside, until he was eventually freed by a budding explorer.

Such acts did not calm the already turbulent waters between the two...

_ When’s this thing going to start? _ Enakhra grumbled internally, cursing herself for her promptness.

Boredom fueled her intense impatience, as there was only so many times you could count the tiles beside the marker or try and catch snowflakes on your tongue. She stopped the latter as soon as Akthanakos had arrived.

Then, as if karma was punishing her for her restlessness, the last person she wanted to talk to teleported in and made a b-line towards her, attempting and failing at a suave swagger.

“Hey Enakhra.”

“Zemouregal,” she rolled her eyes. “I don’t feel like talking right now. There’s plenty of plateau to go around. Go stand with Akky.”

Relaxing into a casual stance, Zemouregal replied, “I think I like it right here.”

Rubbing her cold hands together, she shot him a look of intense irritation. “As if the Ritual wasn't tedious and miserable enough…”

“You know, you really need to get over yourself, Enakhra,” he grumbled, frustration getting the better of him. “You think you’re so much better than everyone, just because you're the last female Mahjarrat. Arrogance doesn't suit you.”

“This coming from the man who wrote ‘This is me. I am amazing’ next to his own name when making notes on the Mahjarrat.”

At this, Zemouregal froze. “How did… y-you read my notes?”

The smile she flashed was wicked.  _ Finally,  _ she thought, _ I've found a way to shut that mouth of his. _

After a long enough silence to make his embarrassment crystal clear, Zemouregal cleared his throat and tried to pick up some of the dignity he'd dropped on the plateau. He narrowed his eyes and tightly warned, “You know, it’s better to make allies than enemies at a time like this.”

“Right,” she scoffed. “Because someone might suggest, ‘I have an idea - shall we kill the last surviving female of our race and doom us all into extinction?’, to which the reply will be, ‘what a splendid idea!’. Yes, Zemouregal. That’s astute.”

“Oh yes, you’re really continuing our survival, pining after Zamorak like that.”

“Shut up,” Enakhra hissed. “When will you take the hint, Zemouregal? I’m. Not. Interested!”

Zemouregal threw his hands in the air. “It’s literally for the survival of our species! Our child would be the future of our race!”

“If the future of our race has your blood, evolution has already failed us.”

 

Jahaan woke up at dawn, having gained only a handful of hours of sleep. With all that had transpired the previous day, relaxation wasn’t exactly in the cards for him. After tossing and turning for about an hour, he finally lulled himself to sleep by counting sheep. A classic, but when you get up to three hundred and two, your brain shuts down out of boredom.

Pulling himself out of bed, he rubbed the sand from around his eyes. The bunk next to him, Ali’s, was already empty, and the door to their chamber was open.

Stumbling to his feet, Jahaan dragged himself out the door, thinking some brisk morning air would wake him up enough to begin the day. When he reached the balcony, Ali was already outside, pondering up at the fading stars that were being eased from the sky by dawn’s early light.

Ali didn’t turn around. He didn’t have to. Instead, he simply stated, “The planets have aligned. The Ritual begins now.”

 

Once everyone awoke that morning, preparations were immediately made for the Ritual to come. This included gearing up with armour, weapons and other useful items. Now, while he did have a rather nice runite dagger, Jahaan didn’t fancy his chances against Lucien with a fishing net and a tinderbox. Bringing this up to Sir Tiffy, the old knight assured he’d sort him out in a jiffy.

The longer he awaited Sir Tiffy’s return, the more his excitement grew. The anticipation of getting to wear some decent armour was like a boyhood dream come true. After all, the best he’d ever worn was mithril, way back in the day. It was incredibly decent, for sure, but Temple Knight armour - heck, even White Knight armour - was superior to that.

His expectations were soaring.

However, when Sir Tiffy returned with three squires in tow, two heaving large, dusty crates and a third hefting a long, rickety box, his expectations were cut down a little bit.

“‘Fraid there was a little snafew, old sport. Something about protocol, initiations, yada-yada… long story short, the armoury’s off limits to you, my lad.”

Doing his best to hide his disappointment, Jahaan watched with quiet desperation as Sir Tiffy blew onto the old crates, an innocuous act that ended up forming a dust cloud so big he started choking on it.

“These here belong to a couple of the knights,” Sir Tiffy continued, wiping his monocle clear. “I say, it’s been here almost as long as I have. They forgot they even had it! What?”

With apprehension far overwhelming his former anticipation, Jahaan pried the lid off the first crate. However, when he laid eyes on the contents, he gulped, mouth suddenly feeling very dry.

Then, he started to grin.

“I think this’ll do just fine.”

 

Jahaan would leave the White Knights Castle wearing his new armour, a full set of runite. It fit like a glove, moulded perfectly to his form. While he thought that mithril was good, compared to wearing runite, mithril was like wearing granite. The mobility it provided was so significant, he felt like he could traverse the Barbarian Agility Course in this thing. Plus, it was so much lighter in weight, and a lot quieter too - no more bumbling about with the stealth and grace of a pigeon. Despite being second hand, there was barely a scratch on it, and no dents in sight. Jahaan wondered if it had ever been worn.

The weapons he had been provided with… ehh…

_ Glass half full, glass half full,  _ Jahaan reminded himself, awkwardly clutching his steel kiteshield and scimitar.

Full runite armour, full steel weapons.

One of these things is not like the other.

 

Soon enough, everyone was ready to go to the Ritual.

Idria and Sir Tiffy tried, in vain, to convince Akrisae to stay behind and not attend the Ritual - the man was a priest who hadn’t swung a sword in over twenty years - but he couldn’t be talked out of going, preaching something about wanting to keep a ‘close eye’ on the Mahjarrat. It was like arguing with a brick wall.

Sir Tiffy gathered a group of his strongest Temple Knights to accompany him, while Idria took two other Guardians of Armadyl alongside her. They didn’t have too many to spare, to be honest. Thaerisk rounded up some druids that had combat experience to attend as well.

Fortunately, all the druids were well-versed in teleportation magic and, between them, they managed to teleport the entire entourage in one go.

 

In the iciest depths of the Wilderness was the Mahjarrat Ritual Site. Technically it was located within Troll Country, between the Trollweiss Mountains, but no trolls had traversed the Ritual Site in centuries. The closest points of ‘civilisation’ were Zemouregal's Fortress to the west, and the abandoned Zarosian fortress of Ghorrock to the north. Aside from the Marker and a few crumbled pillars, the plateau was vast and empty, blanketed by snow.

Fortunately, Ali had told them all to dress up warm enough, but nevertheless, neither knight nor druid was prepared for just how cold the site was.

“I say!” Sir Tiffy hunched his shoulders. “A bit nippy, isn’t it, ol’ chap?”

Ali, too, was shivering, despite having detoured back to his home in Nardah for some fur-lined clothes. “This is why I like the desert. Before we continue, I wanted to reiterate how thankful I am to have the support of your forces against Lucien. I fear we will need them before long. These things never go down peacefully. The other Mahjarrat will have their own forces, too. One just hopes they train them on Lucien and not us.”

“Think nothing of it, ol’ chap, “Sir Tiffy slapped Ali on the back. “We want him gone just as much as you.”

Smiling warmly, Ali said, “Come now, the Ritual Marker itself is just up this ridge…”

But before they could walk much further, Ali stopped abruptly, sensing a disturbance. 

Then, in a whirl of blue and purple, a bulky looking Mahjarrat warrior in battle-hardened steel and black armour teleported into the fray. A skull emblem was emblazoned crookedly upon his chest, matching the bare skeleton of his skinless head. His sword was about as tall as Jahaan, and looked like it weighed as much, though he carried the razor-sharp blade with ease, what with his frame being as bulky and as statuesque as it was.

If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, then this particular Mahjarrat had flattered a lot of large boulders in his time. 

Accompanying him were human troops - looking like dwarves in comparison, but they were most certainly human - in similar armour, carrying steel longswords. When looking between the Mahjarrat’s blade and the ones the human’s carried, they might as well have been wielding butter knives.

The Mahjarrat drove his sword into the snow and rested on the hilt. “So, all the vermin together in a pack, ready to be slaughtered like lambs!”

Ali the Wise rolled his eyes. “You never were our brightest star, Khazard. 'Vermin slaughtered like lambs'? What mess of idioms is that?”

Despite the insult, General Khazard’s fearsome demeanour relaxed into a somewhat casual one. He squinted his eyes, leaning forward slightly. “Wahisietel, is that you?”

“What are you talking about?” Sir Tiffy demanded. “Who's Wahisietel?”

Khazard pointed to Ali, a baffled smirk getting the better of him. “He is!”

With a wave of his hand, Khazard cast a spell that engulfed Ali the Wise in stars and glowing white light. In mere moments, it faded away, leaving a olive robed Mahjarrat in its place, red lines crossing over his slightly spiked skull, with a gem in the middle of his forehead.

Akrisae jumped back, aghast. “What in Saradomin's name is this? What fowl abomination have you brought upon us, Jahaan?!”

Instead of answering, Jahaan regarded Ali with solemn, heavy eyes, mumbling, “...Ali?...”

Frowning, Ali turned to Jahaan and rested a hand on his shoulder. “I apologise for the deception, my friend. ‘Ali’ was a necessary disguise in human lands. My real name is Wahisietel.”

The Mahjarrat turned to the apprehensive knights and warriors - alongside a fearful priest - behind him and addressed, “You need not fear me. I am still on your side. Do not waver now, save your holy crusades for later. We have Khazard and his lackeys here to worry about first.”

“And worried you should be!” Khazard scowled, “I think you'll make the perfect sacrifice for the Ritual, Wahisietel, just as soon as we've dealt with these maggots!”

Akrisae edged closer to Sir Tiffy and whispered, “Should we get some more back-up?”

“No need…”

This response did not come from Sir Tiffy. Rather, it came from Azzanadra, who materialised just in front of them. Bringing forth a ball of pulsing energy to his palms, he stared down Khazard and declared, “This child is not worth the effort. We can deal with him ourselves.”

“Knights, ADVANCE!” Sir Tiffy bellowed, causing his Temple Knights to surge into combat. They clashed with Khazard’s mortal troop, black and white melting together as steel battled with armour and, occasionally, flesh.

 

From their vantage point beside the Marker, Enakhra and Zemouregal just sat back and enjoyed the show, the latter wishing he had bought drinks and refreshments. Akthanakos watched on with trepidation, not daring to get involved.

They watched as Azzanadra sent a rush of smoke to engulf Khazard, seeing him stumble backwards ever so slightly, only to return with a fierce blood spell of his own that Azzanadra barely had time to deflect.

The younger Mahjarrat had discarded his sword very quickly, having enough wits about him to know to fight fire with fire, and that trying to cross the distance of the plateau to charge his opponents with his blade would leave him vulnerable. Alongside his impressive sword skills, Khazard was an incredibly apt sorcerer, casting intrinsic and deadly blood and smoke spells with ease. 

Unfortunately for him, Wahisteil and Azzanadra were a lot more proficient, especially the latter, and thus the younger Mahjarrat realised soon on he had bitten off more than he could chew. Nevertheless, he kept fighting on, knowing that all it took was one well-placed, highly impactful strike on his part to extinguish the flame of one of his Mahjarrat brethren, and it would all be over. The Ritual would be complete, everyone else would be rejuvenated, and he wouldn’t have to see any of the miserable fools for another five hundred years.

That last thought alone made fighting an uphill battle much easier.

 

Between them, Jahaan, the Guardians of Armadyl and the Temple Knights managed to keep Khazard’s elite troops at bay, allowing Wahisietel and Azzanadra to take on Khazard personally. The soldier’s Khazard had bought were incredibly well-versed in melee combat, holding their own against the numbers disadvantage quite formidably. A handful of Temple Knights even fell victim to their blades, and one of the Guardians of Armadyl severely wounded her leg due to a carefully targeted lunge of a dagger, effectively sidelining her for the rest of the ensuing battle. While a couple of druids tended to her, the other two continued their assault on the Khazard troops from a distance, sending precise and effective spells at their opponents.

 

With a malicious cackle from Khazard, a targeted burst of lightning struck the ground beside him and, from the crack in the earth, a skeletal, ghostly apparition pulled itself from the ground. When it reached the surface, it was apparent that this was Khazard’s deceased hellhound - and Postie Pete’s worst nightmare - Bouncer, raised from its eternal slumber to aid him in combat once more. Bearing his teeth with a constant growl, his mouth was full of daggers.

The undead hellhound launched itself at Jahaan, gnashing teeth biting and snapping at the young man who fell to his back in shock. His shield fell to the side, but luckily, Jahaan got his scimitar up to protect his head, pushing back Bouncer with all his strength as the dog tried to chew his sword in two. Jahaan shrunk back into the snow, wincing away from the growling and barking monster pinning him to the ground. Then, suddenly, Bouncer fell limp on top of him with a muffled whine before disappearing in a puff of smoke altogether. Looking up, Jahaan saw Wahisietel send him a brief nod of reassurance before resuming his attack on Khazard. Scrambling to his feet, Jahaan readjusted his grip on his sword and went to work on some of the remaining Khazard troops.

 

Before long, all of Khazard’s elite troops were all defeated, scattered and wounded in crimson patches around the plateau. Azzanadra’s latest blast had sent Khazard to the ground, next to the unconscious body of one of his soldiers. After looking around and seeing his army in pieces, realisation sunk in.

General Khazard pulled himself to his feet, clutching his wounded shoulder. “Ha! You think I'll end up being the one sacrificed today? Not likely!”

In a flash, he teleported away, the sound of maniacal laughter being the only remnant he left behind.

Jahaan’s shoulders sagged. “After all that, he just runs off?”

Wahisietel straightened his cuffs. “Fear not, Jahaan. Khazard may be a cowardly child, but even he is not stupid enough to leave the area at such an important time. He’ll return.”

Leaving the wounded where they were to be tended to by druids, the remaining forces of Sir Tiffy, flanked by the Mahjarrat, made their way up towards the Ritual Marker. Azzanadra scowled at Zemouregal, the first one to catch his eye, but did exchange a friendly nod of greeting to Akthanakos.

“And here I was hoping Khazard could be sacrificed before I had to bother conversing with you two,” Azzanadra cast heavy eyes at the two Zamorakian Mahjarrat.

“It’s not going to be Khazard,” Zemouregal stated, his challenging glare not flinching against the weight of Azzanadra’s. “I’m not having a Zamorakian sacrificed today.”

Enakhra joined him, “As much as I hate to agree with this tool, I concur.”

Akthanakos protested, “No! It will be Lucien or Khazard. Oh how I’d love it to be you, Enakhra. If you weren’t the last of your gender, you’d have been thrown to the Marker ages ago.”

“Well, it’s not going to be me. Besides, I would toss you to the Marker without even breaking a sweat.”

“Your mind is warped by your arrogance, Enhakra,” Akthanakos growled. “My power supersedes yours with ease, and I’ll take on any Zamorakian that challenges me.”

“Please! You were too scared to join in on the fun.”

“I didn’t see you throwing any punches out there!”

Stomping away from the pack, Wahisietel demanded into the skies, “This is ridiculous. Come out and fight, Khazard! Prove yourself, coward, or face oblivion!”

_ “Khazard's not here... Will I do, Wahisietel?” _ the voice floated alongside the snowflakes, sinister and malicious.

Wahisietel’s eyes narrowed. “Lucien!”

_ “Yes, it is I…” _

In a haze of black and smoke, Lucien teleported directly in front of the Ritual Marker. From years of decay his skin had withered away to nothingness, leaving only the frail, haunting shell of his skeletal frame. The crimson robes he draped himself in did little to shield the emptiness of his body. Yet despite his hollow exterior, he somehow managed to give an imposing, almost commanding presence. Perhaps it was the way his robes flowed that gave the illusion of strength and muscle, or the pulled back lips that showed the ridges of his jaw, or the sunken black sockets of his eyes being filled with an icy green glow. There was a stench of death and overwhelming magic that surrounded him, too.

Zemouregal strode to stand closer to the arriving Mahjarrat. “Greetings, cousin. You came at the perfect time. I was growing tired of these Zarosians.”

Instinctively, Idria’s fists clenched into tight balls, her vision turning red as she spat, “Lucien, you murderer!”

Lucien cackled, regarding the assembled entourage with disgust. “And what's this? You've bought some feeble excuse for backup with you too. Who do we have… a faltering priest, an old man, and-”

When his eyes laid on Jahaan, they lit up with malice. “And so we meet again, adventurer.”

“And this time will be the last time, Lucien,” Jahaan didn’t care how cliched he sounded. “You'll answer for the deaths you've caused.”

“How dare you address a god in such an insolent tone!” Lucien exclaimed, venom on his tongue.

Wahisietel retorted, “You're no god, Lucien. You’re just a petty thief.”

“Well said!” Sir Tiffy cheered. “Where’s the Stone, sneak?”

“Like I'd tell you. The Stone is mine and mine alone. Allow me to demonstrate some of the power these new artefacts have given me!”

With a hand in the air, Lucien summonend the Staff of Armadyl into his grasp with a malevolent sneer. Holding the Staff aloft, Lucien caused a grey skull of smoke and ash to emanate from the peak. It washed over him, transforming into pulsing rings of black and purple energy. The ground began to shake, cracking the ice. From these cracks, the ground morphed into two dozen ice-based monsters, covered in spikes and flashing glowing red eyes.

Wahisietel shrunk back a few steps. “Oh no… this isn’t good at all…”

Sir Tiffy, on the other hand, kept a steady expression of resolve. “We'll do our bit if you can hold off Lucien again, old chap!”

Wahisietel nodded. “I'll do what I can, but I fear this will require more power than I own.”

_ “Then perhaps it is time for us to fight alongside each other once more, brother...” _ a voice echoed through the crisp breeze.

Fading out of thin air came a black and purple robed being; his skinless appearance and tall stature suggested he, too, was a Mahjarrat. He was hunched over, wringing his skeletal hands together constantly, like some sort of nervous tick.

Jahaan jumped backwards as the man appeared next to him. “Gah! Where did he come from?”

Wahisietel hurried beside the newcomer, a relieved smile breaking into his face. “Praise Zaros! Sliske! Always in the right place at the right time.”

Lucien’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Ah, Sliske. I wondered when you might slink in... but you should have stayed hidden in your shadows this time. What can you alone hope to do against the power of Lucien?”

Sliske’s lipless mouth cracked into a grin, his lifeless eyes challenging Lucien. “Who said anything about being alone?”

Teleporting backwards, Sliske held out his arms, and they began to shake and quiver as energy pulsed through them. One by one, six fully armoured warriors were summoned in front of him. Their green armour was cracked and dented, rusted slightly from age, but their weapons, my...  they were unparalleled, some of the finest craftsmanship in the five ages. One held a large crossbow with a quiver full of knife-like bolts at his hip. Another, a fearsome battleaxe that looked like it weighed as much as he did. One held a ball and chain, another a curved spear, and another a twin set of warhammers. The last, hooded and cloaked, held a battlestaff. Though they all wore some sort of face protection, one thing could be realised if looking closely enough…

...they didn’t have pupiled eyes.

Sneering, Zemouregal drawled, “Still the puppetmaster as always, Sliske. Well, two can play at that game…”

In a wisp of darkness and shadows, Zemouregal summoned his loyal gargoyle commander, Sharathteerk, to his side, alongside half a dozen armoured zombies. The poor being hadn’t quite got around to dying yet, it seemed.

“I come at your call, my lord,” Sharathteerk bowed before his master, his rocky joints creaking with the action.

Gritting his teeth, Lucien pointed towards Sliske and the surrounding group, barking, “DESTROY THEM ALL!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.


	3. Awoken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the Mahjarrat Ritual upon them, Jahaan, Sir Tiffy and the others venture into the frozen North in an attempt to curtail Lucien’s latest power grab and reclaim the Staff of Armadyl. But a bloodchilling battle of the Mahjarrat might be the least of their worries...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part of my full series 'Of Gods and Men', and on my page can be read in full (or as far as I've posted). I'm also posting it in smaller chunks as each 'quest' can sort of be standalone, but read as part of a wider story as well.

Soon after Lucien’s call, Khazard returned to the fray once more, locking swords with Idria and the remaining Guardian of Armadyl. Seeing him reappear, Sir Tiffy sent his Temple Knights to act as backup for Idria. With enough bodies on him, Khazard was successfully distracted enough for Wahisietel and Azzanadra to focus on Zemouregal and Lucien respectively.

Jahaan’s sword cut through the tainted flesh of the zombies like a knife through butter - he barely broke a sweat as he toppled the slow and groaning creatures with almost laughable ease. Even their regenerative abilities couldn’t keep up with him, and he soon realised that, as long as he destroyed the head, they wouldn’t get back up again. Thus, he adopted the strategy of driving the end of his fearsome blade through the soft skull of a downed opponent, just for good measure.

Seizing the opportunity, Enakhra and Akthanakos wasted no time to start dueling, the former’s signature blood magic battling with the latter’s ice spells. The two danced throughout the plateau, ignoring all the conflicts surrounding them, no matter how closely they accidentally strayed towards the line of fire.

_ Finally, _ they both thought,  _ an opportunity to dispatch this half-wit… _

The fact that Enakhra was the last female Mahjarrat didn’t stop Akthanakos for giving his all - in his eyes, Enakhra had forfeited the right to live when she attacked him first.

Zemouregal went to assist Enakhra - not that she needed it - but was pulled back by Wahisietel channeling a blitz of smoke magic that almost knocked him off his feet. Growling, he countered with a vicious shadow spell, allowing the ancient element to warp around Wahisietel, disorienting him long enough for Zemouregal to follow-up with a burst of blood magic.

Instead of wounding Wahisietel, Zemouregal only succeeded in annoying him, and thus the retaliation was fierce and relentless.

Zemouregal looked with pleading eyes over at Lucien, struggling under the constant barrage of Wahisietel’s ice spells. “Lucien, back me up here!”

Lucien flashed a glance in his direction, but said nothing, continuing instead to counter Azzanadra’s latest surge of smoke magic with a blood spell of his own. The violent clashing of ancient magicks caused the skies to drip with venom and fire, twisting the snow covered earth into grotesque forms as it broke under the impact of stray blasts.

 

Behind them all, Sliske directed his wights like actors on the stage. There was something eerily familiar about the undead men he commanded, something that gnawed away at the edges of Jahaan’s mind, over and over, but never quite breaking through. It was if he’d seen them before, or at least heard enough stories of them that the picture had been painted so vividly in his mind, he might as well have encountered them himself.

_ Stories… that’s it! _

Jahaan realised where he knew the warriors from. They were myths, legends, fables. They were stories told to children of brave heroes of old, stories told around campfires to inspire young and promising warriors, stories told throughout the ages.

They were brothers.

The Barrows Brothers, to be precise. Saradominist crusaders who fought as commanders of formidable armies during the God Wars, particularly during the campaign to conquer southern Forinthry. There, they ventured into Morytania.

It was also there they met their demise.

Tales of their deaths vary depending on who you ask, the truth being lost to time. One constant remains, however, and it is a reason that - alongside being heroic figureheads - the tales of the Barrows Brothers are also cautionary ones.

This constant is ‘the stranger’.

The stranger that watched the campaign from the first footfall, always from afar, delving into the shadows at the edges of the battlefield.

The stranger that knew power and granted it to the brothers, alongside their weapons and signature armour.

The stranger whose insidious ways corrupted the Brothers, targeting their greed and desire for power that, ultimately, brought upon their downfall.

Jahaan turned his attention to the strange Mahjarrat that commanded the Brothers now, and for a brief, fleeting moment, their eyes met. His lidless eyes were hidden deep within the dark recesses of his cowl, but Jahaan could see the light within them, the spark that drew the brothers towards him like a siren song.

 

As the zombies were dealt with, Jahaan focused his attention on the ice titans the Barrows Brothers were duelling with. Leaping into the fray, Jahaan slashed his sword right through the heart of one of the titans, causing the titan to explode from the inside out and scatter ice pieces into the snow, melting very soon after impact. He parrayed with another for a few moments, eventually getting the better of the beast and sending it crashing to the ground.

He turned to find a new opponent when, in a flash, a barrelling punch from one of the titans smashed into Jahaan’s chest, bringing back painful memories - literally painful - of his time battling trolls in Burthorpe. It hadn’t even been a week, but it felt like eons. The agony, however, was as familiar as ever. Clutching his winded stomach, Jahaan fought for the air that had been knocked out of him. The same titan raised its icy fist, intent on finishing the job, but a swing from the giant battleaxe of one of the Barrows Brothers shattered the titan’s fist clean off. Jahaan went to go thank the Brother, then remembered the futility in such an action, and instead turned back to Sliske and gave him a gracious smile.

 

During his battle with Wahisietel, even Zemouregal's ego couldn’t swing the tide in his favour - he was being overpowered, and quite significantly.

Zemouregal fell to one knee as a chunk of bone was scorched straight from his thigh, shattering into fragments that blended with the white ground beneath. Gritting his teeth, he fought through the pain enough to glare heated eyes at Lucien and furiously exclaim, “You would let  _ me _ be the one to be sacrificed, cousin?!”

Lucien didn’t even regard him with the courtesy of a glance this time. No, instead, Zemouregal could have sworn he saw the Mahjarrat smile.

Dragging himself to his feet, he growled, “Then you are not worthy of deciding. Azzanadra was right all along - all on Lucien!”

Zemouregal swung around, targeting an impactful whirl of shadow magic at Lucien, who caught the brunt of it. His being absorbed the blow, only injuring him very slightly, not enough to stop him from blasting Zemouregal back with a spell of his own.

At the combined efforts of Wahisietel, Azzanadra and Zemouregal, Lucien was starting to show some signs of weakening, the internal power within him degrading the longer he kept away from an active source.

Realising this, and seeing how preoccupied the other Mahjarrat had made Lucien, Jahaan saw an opening. Darting behind the Ritual Marker, he eyed up at Lucien’s skeletal dome. Sheathing his scimitar and dropping his cumbersome kiteshield, he stealthily withdraw his dagger from its holder, testing the heavy grip in his gloved hand. His red-hot eyes burned a hole through the back of Lucien’s head, scorching a target, a cross to aim for.

_ Lucien may be a Mahjarrat, he may have god-like powers… but no-one can survive a knife through the skull. _

That’s what he kept telling himself as he steadied his grip, replaying the face of everyone Lucien had slain in the chasm that day. The faces of the statues that glared down at him in Falador Park.

Cyrisus, the former adventurer that Jahaan nursed back to health after a battle wound.

Hazelmere, the gnome mage who foresaw his own death, but used his one chance to escape alive to, instead, sacrifice himself to save Jahaan.

Turael, the Slayer Master who first taught Jahaan about the skill of monster slaying and planned to retire soon.

Harrallak, the owner of the Warrior’s Guild and one of the most accomplished swordsman of the Fifth Age.

Mazchna, the demon who fought under Turael and, in his early life, chased away all the other demons in Morytania. Unlike most of his race, he strove to be an honourable person.

Lassyai, a Guardian of Armadyl that had spent her entire life in service to the protection of the Staff, who then died whilst valiantly fighting to reclaim it.

All of these people gave up their life for Jahaan, all to keep Lucien at bay. Now, finally, Jahaan could avenge them.

Without thinking twice, he surged forward towards the preoccupied Mahjarrat. Leaping upwards, he held his dagger high in the air, ready to bolt down the second he was in the perfect position. At the sudden movement, Azzanadra, Wahisteil and Zemouregal inadvertently betrayed Jahaan’s attack by flitting their eyes in his direction, their magic faltering. Seeing this, Lucien swung around, glaring upwards at the seething Jahaan who was preparing to put a blade through his skull. Out of more luck than reflex, Lucien swayed his head just in time to avoid the killing blow, but didn’t get out of range entirely. Instead of his head, Jahaan buried the blade deep into Lucien’s shoulder.

Roaring in agony, Lucien stumbled backwards into the Marker, clutching the crimson wound. Furiously, he plucked the dagger from his shoulder with a sickening squelch, and tossed it to the ground. Jahaan, almost paralysed in shock, didn’t have it in him to react as Lucien stormed his way, snatched him by the throat and launched him across the battlefield. He landed near to Sir Tiffy in an undignified, snowy heap.

“ENOUGH!” Lucien bellowed, protruding an immense wave of energy that rocked the ground beneath his feet, causing everyone in a radius to lose their balance and fall victim to gravity, landing on the snow beneath them. “I’m bored of your pathetic attempts to stop me. Besides, there are more pressing matters: the Ritual is upon us, and I must choose the sacrifice.”

Picking herself up off the ground, Enakhra boldly contended, “No, Lucien. You may well be the most powerful, but you alone do not decide who faces oblivion.”

“Fool! That's exactly what it means! My power gives me the right to do as I please. No one can stop me! Dare you toil like these cretins have?”

Suddenly, Enakhra's confident demeanour crumbled. She stammered in reply, “N-No… of course not! I… I wasn't questioning your power… I was merely suggesting we think this through. Who dies here affects us all.”

Lucien sniffed a scornful laugh. “Oh, and whom might you suggest?”

“I want it to be Akthanakos.”

“Then it's a shame no one listens to you,” Akthanakos retorted, flashing his teeth.

Zemouregal implored, “Lucien, ignore this pathetic chattering. It doesn’t matter who you pick, as long as it’s one of the Zarosian scum.”

He gestured towards Azzanadra, Sliske, Wahisietel and Akthanakos, who were standing to the east of the Ritual Marker.

“Yes, any of these fools will suffice!” General Khazard concurred, “Why not Wahisietel?”

Wahisietel roared a vicious laugh. “HA! You two are lucky to have lived this long. You’re weak, and the weak will not survive.”

Zemouregal snapped back, “That’s rich coming from you, Wahisietel. You’re almost pathetic as camel-man over here.”

“Hey!” Akthanakos whined, indignantly. Enakhra could only laugh.

“You call me pathetic?” Wahisietel began to counter, “Tell me, Zemouregal - how goes the invasion of Varrock?”

Zemagoural shot him a dirty look, grumbling, “I’ll get it one of these days…”

“And you, Khazard. Still at war with those pesky gnomes?”

Khazard looked away, almost shamefully.

“I rest my case,” Wahisietel was awfully satisfied with himself. “Besides, there is more at stake here than you realise. It MUST be Lucien!”

Azzanadra piped up, “He’s right. Lucien cannot be trusted with that sort of power. He must be the sacrifice.”

“ENOUGH GAMES!” Lucien heatedly boomed, raising his good arm to the sky. “I’m tired of your petty squabbling. I shall be the one to decide! Only I have the power of a GOD! BEHOLD!”

Materialising in front of Lucien was a large sphere of crumbling rock fragments, shaking and shifting constantly as energy pulsed between the cracks. It appeared on a decayed stone plinth, and given this, stood taller than Lucien himself. Reaching forward, Lucien placed his skeletal palm on the Stone, sneering as the power flowed through the very essence of his being.

“The Stone of Jas!” Akrisae gasped, cowering backwards in awe of the mighty Elder Artifact and the madman Mahjarrat touching it.

“NO! It is mine! The Stone of Lucien!” Lucien snapped, loud enough to cause a rift in the world. “It is aligned to me! Useful to no other while I still live! None can stand against me! I AM A GOD!”

Then, a scream that could tear a rift in the entire UNIVERSE shot through the skies, echoing off the harsh winter and reverberating endlessly into the void.

From the air descended Sithaph and Strisath, death haunting their rageful eyes.

“You are no god, False User, just another fool who believes they can manipulate the power of the Stone,” Sithaph spat, the words croaking and rattling in his throat.

Sir Tiffy hurried to Jahaan’s side, “I say! Could these be dragonkin you spoke of?”

Eyes transfixed on the dragonkin, Jahaan gulped, praying to whatever deity that would listen for the beasts’ gaze never to reach his own. “Yep, that’s them…”

Idria, on the other hand, didn’t seem all too phased by the arrival of the dragonkin. “Whatever they are, it sounds like they're here for the same reason we are. We may be on the same side…”

“Idria, wait!” Akrisae hissed, holding out a hand to stop her, but his feet felt like they were frozen to the snow.

Striding up to the dragonkin, Idria bowed lowly before addressing, “Excuse me, Guardians of the Stone?”

The two dragonkin, conversing among themselves, did not notice her approach.

“The False User does not know he called us?” Sithaph queried, his voice as monotone as ever, like every word was an inconvenience.

“No, he is oblivious,” Strisath confirmed.

“He still uses the Stone. I feel my rage growing.”

Clearing her throat, Idria spoke a little louder this time. “Pardon me, dragonkin?”

“It grows in me too,” Strisath concurred. “I feel the need to destroy the False User.”

“I am in agreement.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Idria interjected, her tone clipped with growing impatience. “But we're here to stop Lucien too. We could join forces, and-”

Strisath finally turned his reptilian head towards Idria, his eyes burning into her. Suddenly, Idria realised she had made a grave mistake. “The little creature addresses us. It angers me. It too?”

Sithaph nodded. “Yes. Those before us should know that ALL will suffer now we are unleashed!”

“NO, WAIT!”

Somehow, Akrisae had found his feet, and charged towards the dragonkin. Paralysed in fear, Idria couldn’t even fathom movement as the dragonkin reared on its hind legs and readied a fireball, roaring in fury. He threw Idria out the way with strength he didn’t even know he had, launching her into the bitterly cold snow as scorching flames engulfed his body.

The screaming, mercifully, didn’t last more than a few agonsing seconds before Akrisae was turned to nothing more than charred ash, contrasting sickeningly against the white snow beneath him.

Jahaan, Tiffy and the others watched in abject horror. Even some of the Mahjarrat were trembling at this point.

Lucien’s eyes darted wildly around the plateau, begging for an escape. It was then, however, that he realised many of the gatherers were turning to him for a response.

So, swallowing hard, he clutched the Staff of Armadyl even tighter in his grasp and remarked, “An interesting display of power, but it does not compare to my own.”

Strisath glared through him. “Beware, False User - your power is taken from the Stone, our power IS the Stone.”

Sithaph clenched his clawed hands into balled fists. “Your destruction is at hand, fool.”

Bellowing a laugh, Lucien challenged, “YOU are the fool! You DARE mock the power of Lucien?!”

Though it was incredibly hard to tell from the structure of his abnormal jaw, Jahaan could have sworn he saw a glint of a smile on Sithaph’s face. That was the most terrifying thing of all. “We dare.”

To his credit, Lucien was brave enough - or stupid enough - to charge the dragonkin head on. Instead of summoning an attack from the Staff of Armadyl, however, he tried to swing the spiked end at Strisath, who effortlessly dodged out of the way. Sithaph, on the other hand, was a little slower in his reactions and caught the rebound swing from Lucien straight into the ridge of bony wing. Staggering sideways slightly, Sithaph’s eyes flashed fire, and he sent a surge of it at Lucien, who just about dove to the ground in time.

Picking him from the ground, Strisath carried Lucien with a vice-like grip around his throat, strangling the Mahjarrat, who’s legs flailed helplessly in the air. Dropping the Staff on instinct, Lucien fought in vain to break Strisath’s hold, using what little oxygen he had left to beg for assistance.

None was offered.

No, everyone stood as far back as they could, but their eyes were still fixated on the horrors unfolding in front of them.

Balling his fists, Lucien concentrated with every ounce of mental strength he had on channeling the power coursing through him. With a mighty shout, a burst of dark energy exploded form him, knocking Strisath to the ground. However, Lucien was too foolish to capitalise, taking a moment to appreciate the awe he had inspired among his fellow Mahjarrat and other bystanders. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, Sithaph flew in and tackled Lucien to the ground, biting a chunk out of the Mahjarrat’s armour, chewing it briefly and spitting it out like it was a grape seed.

Sithaph then dragged Lucien to his knees by the scruff of his collar, proceeding to toss him violently into the Ritual Marker a good twenty feet away. Lucien careened into it head first, splitting his skull open upon impact. With horror, Lucien ghosted a hand towards the crack in his head. The Mahjarrat tried to stagger to his feet, using the Ritual Marker to pull himself to his knees. When he turned around, however, Strisath was on top of him. Claws pierced into Lucien’s thighs as the dragonkin pinned him down, causing the Mahjarrat to scream in agony. He swiped and swatted desperately at Strisath, struggling to fight against the dragonkin’s weight. But before he could mount a steady retaliation, Strisath raised a dagger-like fist full of claws high into the air. Plunging them down into Lucien’s chest, they cut through his armour like it wasn’t there at all. Twisting inside of him, Strisath wrapped his claws around Lucien’s heart and ripped the organ right out of his body, silencing Lucien’s haunting screams once and for all as the life vanished from his eyes.

As soon as it did, the Ritual Marker started to shake, crying out a whirl of haunting, smoking grey skulls from its mouth. The earth beneath it trembled, cracking the tiles surrounding the Marker. The skulls flew into Lucien, lifting his lifeless body from the ground to twist and contort one more time, before the skulls abandoned his body and instead found hosts inside the gathered Mahjarrat. Purple energy pulsed inside their veins, engulfing and overpowering them. They clutched their chests, staggering and swaying as they absorbed the vasts amounts of energy shooting into them. Once they’d taken in all they could, their arms shot outwards, wide eyes fixed on the sky above them as they exhaled deeply.

The flesh had returned to their bones, the strength to their muscles, and their power had been increased tenfold.

“That’s more like it!” Zemouregal cheered, feeling like he could take on the world.

Cracking into a grin, Sliske removed the glove from his hand and examined the skin beneath it with relief. “You miss the little things, don’t you?”

Stretching out his muscles, Wahisietel contributed, “I feel reborn, alive!”

“As do I,” Azzanadra concurred, allowing the magic to dance between his fingertips.

“Indeed. We are rejuvenated, but I have no wish to stay here and share Lucien's fate,” Enakhra declared, not succeeding in hiding her terror at what she’d just witnessed. Folding her arms over her chest, she teleported back to her desert temple.

Akthanakos muttered something under his breath, more than a little petrified. He, too, teleported away.

Clearing his throat, General Khazard lowly stammered, “Um.. I too have... urm... m-matters to attend to.”

With that, he was gone, taking the remnants of his army with him.

“So, Lucien is dead. Good riddance, I say,” Zemouregal stated, managing to sound at least slightly confident in his tone, but the shaking of his hands betrayed his true emotions. He teleported back to his fortress.

“Until the next Ritual,” Azzanadra nodded to Wahisietel, solemnly, before teleporting back to Senntisten.

The dragonkin Strisath turned to his comrade, remnants of Lucien’s heart dripping from his claws. The deceased Mahjarrat’s blood was ink-like and thick, shining with a somewhat iridescent quality. “The False User is defeated.”

“Yes. The pain subsides,” Sithaph announced, licking his lips. Turning to the onlookers left on the plateau, he warned, “Know this, watchers: we answer only to the Stone. All will pay the price for its misuse.”

“The Dragonkin are awakened,” Strisath snarled, declaring, “This world will suffer as we do.”

Scooping up the Staff of Armadyl, they took to the skies, screaming as they went, until they disappeared from sight, lost to the distance of the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.


	4. You Will Know Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the Mahjarrat Ritual upon them, Jahaan, Sir Tiffy and the others venture into the frozen North in an attempt to curtail Lucien’s latest power grab and reclaim the Staff of Armadyl. But a bloodchilling battle of the Mahjarrat might be the least of their worries...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part of my full series 'Of Gods and Men', and on my page can be read in full (or as far as I've posted). I'm also posting it in smaller chunks as each 'quest' can sort of be standalone, but read as part of a wider story as well.

Idria limped over to Sir Tiffy, her limbs bruised and battered, a scar quickly former underneath her right eye. “Lucien is dead, but we were too late. The dragonkin are here, and Akrisae...”

She broke off, her lip quivering. She shut her eyes tight, trying to block out the memory that wouldn’t leave her any respite. 

“I know, Idria,” Sir Tiffy placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “We all feel the loss for one of our own, but right now, we need to focus, chaps. It's not over yet.”

Gathering his shield and resheathing his scimitar, Jahaan concurred, “Sir Tiffy’s right, we need to do something about the Stone. It's clear the dragonkin are linked to its use, and that Lucien's lust for power is what brought them here in the first place.”

“Yes, and the Stone is still here,” Wahisietel noted. “We must hide it away to prevent its further use… or misuse.”

“Good luck with that, my brother,” Sliske sauntered up beside Wahisietel, his wights absent from his side.

“Still here, Sliske? I thought you'd have left with the rest of them.”

“Not just yet. I wanted to introduce myself to our mutual friend,” he turned to Jahaan. “We've met before, but I doubt he remembers me.”

Jahaan raised an eyebrow. “I'm sorry, we've met?”

Sliske smiled, cheerfully, but there was a shadow behind his eyes. “Many times. Though it's nice to finally converse without all the charades and masks, isn't it?”

Jahaan didn't know how to answer. “I…”

“My name is Sliske. I've been watching you for quite some time now, Jahaan,” Sliske continued, “So I thought it only polite to properly introduce myself. After all, I have the feeling our paths are going to cross again very, very soon.”

Scrunching his brow, Jahaan opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Sliske smiled an unnerving, unreadable smile, and vanished into the shadows.

Blinking away the cobwebs, Jahaan glanced at Wahisietel. “ _ He's _ your brother?”

Wahisietel smiled thinly. “You don't know the half of it.”

“He was the acquaintance that told you of the dragonkin attack, wasn't he?” Jahaan guessed, finally piecing it together, though what bigger puzzle he was constructing, he had no idea.

Wahisietel frowned. “Yes. He must have known I would have come to you, to gather mortal allies from the only mortal I can trust. In doing such, I led you right to him.”

Shrugging, Jahaan casually remarked, “He seems… alright. I mean, he saved my life back there.”

Peering suspiciously over his shoulder, Wahisietel leaned in closer to Jahaan. In a hushed tone, he stated, “He may have saved your life, but I know that Sliske doesn't take an interest in things - or people - unless they serve to benefit him in some way. If there's one thing you can trust, it's that you can't trust Sliske.”

Chuckling, Jahaan assured, “Thanks for the heads up Ali- I mean, Wahisietel.”

Smiling warmly, Wahisietel said, “My use here has ended. I owe you enough to not betray you by watching what happens to the Stone. I return to Nardah. Farewell.”

In a haze of purple, he teleported away.

Seeing the area was clear, Thaerisk hurried over towards Sir Tiffy and the others gathered beside him. “We need to get the wounded back to Falador,” he stated, solemnly. “They won’t make it out here much longer.”

Nodding, Sir Tiffy ordered, “Get the druids to teleport them to the infirmary. Idria, I want you to get patched up too, ol’ girl. Thaerisk, you are to return here as soon as possible. I need your help with our little Stone problem.”

“Understood,” Thaerisk hurried away to complete his task. 

Once the wounded were safely dealt with and everyone but Jahaan and Sir Tiffy had vanished from the site, they looked uncomfortably between each other.

The silence and serenity of the plateau was harsh, a difficult transition from the bloodthirsty battle they’d left behind.

With a huff, Sir Tiffy stroked his beard, clearing out the tangles and ruffles he previously accrued. “Well, it looks like it's down to us two, Jahaan.”

“What now?” Jahaan queried. “I don't know how to move a relic of infinite power that unleashes guardians capable of defeating Mahjarrat. Do you?”

Shaking his head, Sir Tiffy replied, “Not a bobbin, but we need to do something with it. Its power is too much for any single person to control, after all.”

A smile tugged at Jahaan’s lips; he tried to conceal it. “I've been thinking of building a nice house. If there’s plenty of space in the garden, it might make for a nice water feature…”

Chuckling, Sir Tiffy wagged his finger. “Nice try, ol’ boy. I do hope Thaerisk has an idea, otherwise we really are up creek, what?”

Soon enough, Thaerisk teleported in. In the brief time he had spent back in Falador, he’d obviously gotten used to the warmer climate, as he’d foolishly taken off his overcoat and left it behind. Shivering slightly, huddling into himself, Thaerisk surmised, “So, we need to hide this somewhere it can never be found?”

Sir Tiffy nodded. “That’s right, ol’ chap. Do you know of anything in your teachings that can help?”

Thaerisk pondered for a moment. Finally, he replied, “Hmm… yes. Yes, I think I know just the thing. We can channel a teleportation spell.”

Jahaan didn’t seem all that impressed. “Any trained mage can teleport. Heck, I could probably do it with the right runes. Is that all you've got?”

Thaerisk explained, “You misunderstand. It’s a tri-fold mathematical teleportation spell. We can all hold numbers in our minds. I'll focus on depth, to ensure the Stone ends up deep underground and not in Varrock Palace gardens or something. Tiffy, you focus on any number, as big as you want. That can channel into the coordinates of the Stone. And you,” he pointed to Jahaan, “you focus on a simple number, used as a cypher for Tiffy's number. The spell will then go through each of our minds, encoding Tiffy's coordinate with your number, and my depth. Individually, none of us will know where it will end up.”

“Blimey, now that sounds like a plan!” Sir Tiffy cheered, slapping Thaerisk on the back. “I may be old, but I can still count just fine!”

“Good to hear. Let's get into position and then channel the spell. You okay over there, Tiffy?”

“Ready when you are!” Sir Tiffy affirmed.

“Jahaan?”

“Same here.”

“Then focus your minds… NOW!”

In a pulse of green light, before Jahaan could even register the action, the Stone had vanished into the ether.

Opening one eye carefully, then the other, Jahaan ventured, “Is it… is it done?”

Thaerisk straightened out the ruffles in his robe. “It is. Thank Guthix that's over. Back to Falador?”

“Righty-oh,” Sir Tiffy concurred. “I think after all this excitement, I need a nice cup of tea…”

 

When they teleported back to Falador, the sharp contrast in temperature ricochet through them like a gunshot, making them all shudder. It took a few moments to adjust to the ambient warmth surrounding them, but once they did, they made their way into Falador Castle, nodding to the Knights that guarded the gates as they went.

Sir Tiffy instructed Jahaan to wait for him in the study while he went to the infirmary to check on Idria and the others. Remembering the way, he took himself through the long corridors and thin passageways, ignoring the uncomfortable looks he received on the way, from Knights and kitchen staff alike. Feeling slightly insecure, he checked his head to see if they were looking at a wound or something else protruding oddly from him. Unable to find the cause, he instead worked to hurry his pace to get to the solitude of the study quicker.

Closing the door behind him, he relaxed back against the creaking wood and finally let out a pent-up exhale, relief washing over him. In the warmth and the low candlelight, he was alone.

He was alone, and Lucien was no more.

_ So why don’t I feel better? _

He’d dreamt of killing Lucien enough times, of finally seeing the wretched Mahjarrat draw his last breath. He dreamt of a dagger to his heart, a spear through his chest, a sword to remove his head… he’d even dreamt of Lucien being eaten alive by the Queen Black Dragon herself.

_ Well, this comes close enough, _ he accepted, trying to force himself to smile. It was an effort.

_ Maybe praying would help?  _ Jahaan considered, his heart feeling hollow. That unenthusiastic thought was chased down by a simple,  _ Meh. Who to? _

Born in Menaphos, he was raised to worship the Menaphite Pantheon, a group consisting of two gods, two demigods and four lesser deities. No-one outside the desert followed these gods, and those that moved out of the land they were born in often turned to other deities, like Saradomin, who was the god of the majority of humans on Gielinor.

Jahaan never converted to any of the other gods. He didn’t like the idea of blindly following one entity you barely knew anything about to the ends of the universe and back again. At least he’d actually interacted with Icthlarin, the Menaphite God of the Dead. Despite this, it felt odd praying to a god he’d met in person twice before, a god that called him a friend, with the sentiment returned. Praying to him now would seem... forced... and so Jahaan just let his mind continue on without the comfort blanket of prayer.

However, his solemn contemplation came to a crashing halt when the door behind Jahaan tried to open, jolting the startled young man forwards. Hurrying away from the door, Sir Tiffy entered with a full-bodied chuckle. “You okay, my lad?”

Regaining his composure, Jahaan hastened to refocus his mind on the here and now. “Sorry, I was just thinking…”

Shutting the door behind him, Sir Tiffy stroked his beard. “Yes, we’ve all had a lot to think about today… it’s been a tricky one, hmm.”

“That’s an understatement. How’s Idria? And the others?”

“She’ll make a full recovery,” Sir Tiffy assured. “We lost a few good men today, but they died heroes, and will be remembered as such. Thank you for all you’ve done, my boy. Your alliance with those Mahjarrat fellows, and the guts you had charging Lucien like that! Ha! I was dumbfounded, what? No my boy, that was an interesting move, but I like your style!”

“So, can I become a Temple Knight now?” Jahaan eagerly asked, proper convention out the window. He was washed over with a weird, uncomfortable mix of fatigue and adrenaline, and it didn’t let his mind tick to a steady rhythm.

“'Fraid not, sonny,” Sir Tiffy smiled sadly, patting Jahaan lightly on the back.

Jahaan's face fell. “Oh.”

“I’m saying no because you're a young lad with a lot of talent and potential. Tying you to a knighthood would be a waste of you. And be honest with me, do you really want to spend the rest of your days in Falador’s wall, ol’ chap?”

Jahaan winced, his shoulders sagging. It was answer enough, and it caused Sir Tiffy to chuckle.

“I knew from the start your heart wasn’t really in it. I may be old, but I’m no fool, what? Besides, we're a little bit stuck in our traditions, us Temple Knights. We only accept true Saradominists into our ranks.”

“I thought you said it didn't matter what gods I followed,” Jahaan protested in vain.

Sir Tiffy smiled, wryly. “That was a little white lie. If you were up to snuff - which you are, my boy - I would have found something else to reward you with. You passed my test. Bravo!”

He’d be lying if Jahaan said he wasn’t at least a little bit irritated, being used like that. But he’d also be lying if he said that he wasn’t used to it by now - people do have a habit of taking advantage of young, naive adventures, after all. However, he stayed his tongue, adjusting his tone to not convey his true sentiments when he said, “So… is that it? I’m to just toddle off on my way now?”

“Not exactly. I do have one little thing for you…” rummaging around the study for a little while, he found a blank sheet of paper and a quill pen. Carefully, he scribed out a little note, but made sure to block Jahaan’s view of its contents. After blowing it dry, he found an envelope, inserted the note, and found his wax stamp to seal the envelope shut.

Handing it to Jahaan - who was feeling increasingly like a mailman - he said, “Take this to Fionella of the Legends’ Guild. No peeking now, my boy.”

With only a mere moment’s hesitation, Jahaan took the envelope. Bowing his head, he thanked Sir Tiffy and made to leave for his temporary chambers, hoping it was implied that he could stay another night as he was too tired to start his journey now. However, at the doorway, Sir Tiffy caught his wrist and added, “Oh, one more thing - keep the armour, my lad. It was doing no-one any good in that store room.”

Now THIS lifted Jahaan’s spirits, taking away the pit of disappointment that had been lingering around mere moments before. Profusely, he thanked Sir Tiffy, bowing lowly as he tried his damndest to hide his grin and keep his cool. Closing the door behind him, Jahaan literally lept in the air with joy, though regretted the clink his armour made as he did so. With a smile that couldn’t be washed off, he began to make his way to his chambers. The rumbling in his stomach, however, decided to reorganise his priorities, and instead he made for the kitchen, wondering with glee what delights they fed the knights of the castle…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.

**Author's Note:**

> As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.


End file.
